John Muir Trail Part 1: Mather Pass
As we made our way up the canyon toward Mather Pass, the tiny notch materialized into a large rock barricade comprised of thousands of granite boulders ranging in size from baseballs to SUVs. It was the first pass that we’d had a clear view of, gazing at our destination first from Pinchot Pass the day prior and then most of that morning as we walked up the miles-long glacial moraine which had been carved into the landscape about 14,000 years ago. I’m never sure if I prefer to have line-of-sight on upcoming challenges or just prefer to be suddenly surprised when I end up at the top.
We broke camp early that morning, forded the river in the brisk air and began a relatively easy traipse up the gentle slope through a beautiful tree-lined meadow. Morning is one of my favorite times to hike, but by far one of the most magical times of day to be in an open, enlivening meadow as all the birds and other creatures wake and begin to go about their day. I prefer to get out of camp early to take advantage of the cool mornings when my legs feel more fresh and the heat has not exacerbated my nerve damage yet. Usually around 3-5 miles into our itinerary, we will stop and eat breakfast before continuing on. My feet had been in bad shape for the previous 3 days of our trip, so the gentle upward slope on forgiving dirt and sand trail leading up to Mather Pass had held my heels tight in the back of my boots and provided relief from the pressure on my toes.
One or two miles before the pass at about 11,000 feet, we emerged from the tree-line into the stone- and puddle-pocked terrain just below. Under a short tree undoubtedly growth-studded by brutal wind and snow, we found a protected area to eat our granola and take a rest as we examined the map and looked onward at the last 1,000 feet of elevation to the top. Mather Pass has a reputation of being extremely difficult, but this is likely more for the hikers traveling south who have to traverse the famous “Golden Staircase” up to the Palisade Lakes and then continue up to Mather Pass. While our traverse up the rock studded switchbacks was not easy, it was also not particularly more difficult than our previous two passes. This was probably even more the case because our third night in camp was the first time my husband and I both slept, slightly more acclimatized and lulled by the adjacent river waters.
When we reached the top of the pass, we plopped down on a boulder and awaited the arrival of our trail companions whom we’d been yo-yoing with for the past two days. The incredibly friendly group were all Czech, but had ventured out west from their home in D.C.
We had officially met them the day prior at the top of Pinchot Pass, which I could not seem to stop calling Pinochet Pass. The switchbacks leading to the top of that pass were on flat, small rocks weaving between larger boulders which obscured the view of where the trail led, let alone the top. When I suddenly emerged at the top, two of them were doing push-ups on the flat rock that spanned across the very narrow shelf. They counted, “Ten, eleven, twelve…”. When my husband arrived moments later, he immediately dropped down with his backpack still on and joined the chorus, “...thirteen, fourteen”.
When they arrived at the top of Mather Pass and everyone had completed their perfunctory set of push-ups, we congratulated them and shared a few moments eating trail mix or bars of some kind together. Eva complained that she had only brought macadamia nuts with her on the trip because of their calorie density and shared that she never wanted to see another macadamia nut. I laughed, because I can never seem to anticipate what I’m going to be most appetized by for lunch and it seems to change every trip. On one hike M&Ms, peanuts and raisins are on my mind for hours; on another I may only eat tortillas and beef jerky. Leading up to a weeklong trip we had taken with friends the year prior, one of our compatriots spent a great deal of time talking about how stoked he was to find chocolate-covered crystallized ginger in the bulk bins at his local grocery store. Needless to say, by the end of the trip they had nothing left of their trail mix but a bunch of ginger bites.
Before we departed down the other side of Mather Pass, I re-laced my boots using multiple surgeons knots tight around the ankle to hold my feet back in my boots. Unfortunately, it had become apparent on the second day of our adventure that my beloved boots were on the outs and were not properly holding my heel in the back. Day two of a 15 day trip is not an ideal time to realize that the thing protecting arguably your most important asset and mode of locomotion are defective.
In camp on our second night, I couldn’t even get my camp shoes on without sharp pain. I wallowed in dismay, sitting on a red tarp contemplating my situation for about 30 minutes before resolving that I had no interest in quitting. On day one, I had thought I was getting an ingrown toenail on my left foot. “Shouldn’t have cut my nails so short!” I thought. Midday on day two, I was convinced that it was just a very painful blister forming on the side of my big toe, which was true but not the primary culprit. This particular second night, my new theory was that the new insoles I had purchased were pushing my toes up in the front of my boot and causing pressure on my toenails. Regardless, there was no use marinating in misery or second guessing my decision about it now.
We began our descent down toward the Palisade Lakes. At the top of each of these passes, far above the treeline, the lakes below look barren. They appear to be pools in the bottom of red or white granite pestles. I had learned from my guidebook the previous night that these different colored granites are a result of completely different geological epochs. Leading up to Mather Pass, the sharp peaks to one side were composed of white granite while those on the other had a tint of pink or red. The rocks on the far side of the pass were similar to those leading up, with switchback after switchback of baseball sized granite rocks which I have not-so-lovingly or creatively dubbed “ankle rollers”. The need to take each step with deliberation made our descents much slower that I had anticipated during planning. Finally, we reached the trail above Upper Palisade Lakes and the moving trail of rolling rocks began to nestle themselves into the ground somewhere between sand and dirt. A spring cascaded down the rocks from above us. My feet were throbbing.
We walked high on the steep edge of the peak parallel to the lakes for a few miles and by the time we finally reached the camp at the farthest tip of Lower Palisades Lakes, each step felt like I was stubbing my toe into the end of the bed. This was supposed to be our shortest distance day if we decided to stay here. I usually have a plan A camping spot which is the shortest distance we have to hike to stay on schedule. If we get there and we’re worked, we stop, but if we get there and it looks like there is a nicer spot a little farther on, we keep moving. My husband felt strongly that he wanted one day where we reached camp midday and stopped to enjoy.
This was a very popular camping spot and many hikers were pouring into the area from both directions, so we began getting a little anxious about finding a nice spot to pitch our tent. The campsites here were on either side of the lakes outlet, but hikers had to ford the outlet in order to access the sites on the far side. I made the incredibly stupid decision to cross the river barefoot in an effort to keep my camp shoes dry. As I reached the far side of the river, my foot slipped and I jammed my right big toe into a rock and downward. I didn’t need to pull my foot out of the water to know that I had just lifted my already delicate toenail off the surface of my nail bed. I spent the next 10 minutes or so sitting on a soggy grass bed next to the river looking at my increasingly purple toenail, whispering profanities to myself and feeling absolutely dejected while my husband explored the area for his perfect campsite. “The highs and lows of backpacking,” as my husband likes to say.
In all of the luxury of a middle-class 21st Century American life, there is something inside me that yearns for simple hardships. I’m not talking about social or economic hardship -- the fight for racial justice or the struggle to pay one’s rent. I’m referring to physical struggle. It’s a solvable problem or a trial we can easily conceptualize and endure. Slowly, over the course of that afternoon staring out at the emerald water of the lake and the sun capped tips of the sharp mountain edges I resolved that I would persevere. My toes hurt - what a trivial barrier in the scope of the global struggles that are faced every year, let alone amidst a global pandemic. I can walk. I can climb. I can breathe. Who cares about a couple sore toes or a lost toenail or two.
That afternoon was the longest time we would spend in camp on the whole trip. I waded out waist-deep into the lake on a large submerged granite boulder and stared across the water in unstructured contemplation. I allowed the cold water of the 10,000 foot lake to numb my legs and buoy my body so that I felt almost weightless. I floated there, loosely anchored to my rock, unanchored to time. I thought about my disease and everything that it has taken from me and everything that it has given me. I have Multiple Sclerosis, a disease of the central nervous system. Sometimes I venture through my day feeling entirely normal, and other times it feels as though it’s weight is pressing down on me as though rocks are being progressively stacked on my chest just to see how much weight I can endure. After another attack a few months prior to this trip which rendered my right leg even weaker than it was before, I felt determination not to let it rob me of these incredible experiences. Therein lies the duality, because I can’t honestly say I would have ever started backpacking if it weren’t for the disease that may eventually take it away from me. I can’t say that I would have fought my employer to get the time off to be here if I didn’t feel a sense or urgency to do this now, for fear that I might not be able to do it later. This reality is true for all of us, but my MS has kept it in the forefront of my decision making. In a way, that constraint has given me freedom.
As hikers passed by on the other side of the lakes outlet, I watched them look for campsites or look around and decide to venture on. I saw some of our comrades sitting on the grass across from me and waved. When my husband finally made the dive into the lake, he exclaimed a garbage disposal of sounds as he submerged into the cold water. We all laughed. When I finally left my rock-oasis, I glided silently out into the water pirouetting to face the sky. The water enveloped me and felt like cool silk surrounding my body. The clean, snow-melted lake washed away the dirt from the day and renewed my body and my spirit. I felt entirely present in the moment.
When I finally made my way back to shore, I found my rock first before stepping barefoot into the soppy grass where my small towel sat. My body shook in the exposed air and time returned to my consciousness. I looked back on the lake for a moment, before making my way to camp to begin boiling water for dinner and to inspect the map for the next day.